we almost kinda coulda had san diego
This past weekend was San Diego Comic-Con, aka the Most Wonderful Time of the Year. It's the only time people who look like me get to mingle with one another, share our nerddom and also mingle with those who are much more physically attractive than ourselves, and the only time those people have to acknowledge us.
I didn't get to go to Comic-Con this year, though I did send a writer. I really wanted to go. I asked my boss. Last year, when they didn't send me, they said that they'd made a mistake and that I would definitely go this year. Instead, I came into the office and helped an intern move, and as a result, I missed my Rendezvous with Alba.
I can already see how it would've went. I would've been perusing long boxes for Zatanna memorabilia and copies of "Kraven's Last Hunt," the greatest Spider-man story ever told (I already have it of course in single issue form, but they're in New York, and it would be nice to have some extra copies--just in case). Maybe she would be looking for issues of Sin City to bone up on her Nancy Callahan character for the sequel, or perhaps her involvement in the comic book movie world would have sparked her interest in sequential art and she would be looking to expand her comic book horizons.
Our quiet searches would've caused us to accidentally bump into one another. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she would've said. I would've gotten sweaty in response. In my haste to shield myself from her overpowering sexy lasers (its' been a long weekend), I would've stammered something illegible and tried to move away, but she'd have labeled me a savvy comics vet because of my Sandman hat, pants and T-shirt and would've asked, "Are these any good?" She would've been holding a couple copies of Love and Rockets and I would've heard cello music.
From there, we'd grab a pick bite to eat so she could "pick my brain about comics." I'd suggest Al Aqua 2 just a few blocks away. I'd tell her that I'd eaten there the last time I was at Comic-Con in 2005, and I thought it was great. We'd head over there in her Prius. I'd order some sort of fish thing. ...I haven't really thought about what she'd get. Then she'd put it on her Amex card and I'd give a big sigh of relief, because that shit was fucking expensive. On the way back, the conversation would turn to other things: work, stress, Icanhascheezburger, you know, the important things. She'd tell me she just became single and was hoping to get her mind off things. I would've silently cursed the false claims of my "all day dry" antiperspirant.
Of course, upon our return to the convention center, reality--or as reality as the Comic-Con would get--would soon set in. Her pocket PC would've been raging with messages and she'd say something like, "I almost forgot about that press junket," or, "I can't believe I have to take that photo op with Dain Cook. He's such a tool," or, "I have to meet up with my manager so we can catch our plane out in a few hours." Or something like that. We'd wave and say it was nice to meet you, and I'd become just another balding 30-something fat-ish man in the Comic-Con crowd. Back where I belong, with my brethren. If I'd gone to San Diego.
I didn't get to go to Comic-Con this year, though I did send a writer. I really wanted to go. I asked my boss. Last year, when they didn't send me, they said that they'd made a mistake and that I would definitely go this year. Instead, I came into the office and helped an intern move, and as a result, I missed my Rendezvous with Alba.
I can already see how it would've went. I would've been perusing long boxes for Zatanna memorabilia and copies of "Kraven's Last Hunt," the greatest Spider-man story ever told (I already have it of course in single issue form, but they're in New York, and it would be nice to have some extra copies--just in case). Maybe she would be looking for issues of Sin City to bone up on her Nancy Callahan character for the sequel, or perhaps her involvement in the comic book movie world would have sparked her interest in sequential art and she would be looking to expand her comic book horizons.Our quiet searches would've caused us to accidentally bump into one another. "Oh! I'm sorry!" she would've said. I would've gotten sweaty in response. In my haste to shield myself from her overpowering sexy lasers (its' been a long weekend), I would've stammered something illegible and tried to move away, but she'd have labeled me a savvy comics vet because of my Sandman hat, pants and T-shirt and would've asked, "Are these any good?" She would've been holding a couple copies of Love and Rockets and I would've heard cello music.
From there, we'd grab a pick bite to eat so she could "pick my brain about comics." I'd suggest Al Aqua 2 just a few blocks away. I'd tell her that I'd eaten there the last time I was at Comic-Con in 2005, and I thought it was great. We'd head over there in her Prius. I'd order some sort of fish thing. ...I haven't really thought about what she'd get. Then she'd put it on her Amex card and I'd give a big sigh of relief, because that shit was fucking expensive. On the way back, the conversation would turn to other things: work, stress, Icanhascheezburger, you know, the important things. She'd tell me she just became single and was hoping to get her mind off things. I would've silently cursed the false claims of my "all day dry" antiperspirant.Of course, upon our return to the convention center, reality--or as reality as the Comic-Con would get--would soon set in. Her pocket PC would've been raging with messages and she'd say something like, "I almost forgot about that press junket," or, "I can't believe I have to take that photo op with Dain Cook. He's such a tool," or, "I have to meet up with my manager so we can catch our plane out in a few hours." Or something like that. We'd wave and say it was nice to meet you, and I'd become just another balding 30-something fat-ish man in the Comic-Con crowd. Back where I belong, with my brethren. If I'd gone to San Diego.
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